


Twists and Turns

by pulpriter



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 01:02:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5354972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pulpriter/pseuds/pulpriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four silly little stories</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bound to Happen

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not organized enough to write 25 days of drabbles, and with the slow way I write, I’d have had to start in September…but I had these corny little ideas floating around and needed to share.  
> None of these characters are mine, I stole them. Well, actually, the hotel clerk is mine. And the bartender.  
> I always love my gentle readers’ comments, please indulge me.

It was bound to happen sooner or later. They couldn’t possibly have continued on the course they were on without it happening; this she knew. In all the time they had spent together, all the work they had done together, it was inevitable. She knew it in her heart; but it was still hard to come to terms with the situation she found herself in. 

“Oh, no! Jack, help!” cried the Honourable Phryne Fisher, who felt less than honourable at the moment. 

Detective Inspector Jack Robinson rounded the corner and stopped short. He didn’t often laugh out loud, but this time there was no way he could stop himself, even if he knew he’d regret it. 

He had seen her straighten her hat in mid-chase. He had seen her pursue criminals through back alleys without batting an eyelash or mussing her makeup. He had seen her elegant scarves and day coats whipping around her as she tracked suspects through all manner of filthy situations. It had to happen sometime.

Some criminal had to trip her up, leaving her rolling in the mud and muck. 

“Is that the best that you can do?” Phryne demanded furiously.   
“Laugh at you, you mean?” Jack said, finally recovering his voice. “I’m afraid it is.” 

Phryne huffed and tried to stand up. Everything around her was filth. She hated to push herself up—  
“Phryne. Give me your hand,” Jack said, stepping up close and offering his hand to her.   
She stared at him for a moment. “It is very tempting to pull you in here with me,” she said severely.   
“I don’t doubt it,” he said seriously. Mostly seriously. A bit of an impish grin kept appearing, though he tried to quash it.   
“And yet you’re going to risk it?”   
“I am.”   
“You’re a brave man, Inspector.”   
“Or a very foolish one.” She put her grubby hand in his clean one, and he pulled her up out of the mess.  
He beheld her in her squalor. Somehow she managed to wear it well. “And in this case,” he continued, “I wouldn’t be as brave as you are.”   
She smiled happily. “Do you really mean that?”   
“I do. We came in the Hispano, and you’re going to have to sit in it like this to drive us back.”   
The horror on her face made it hard not to laugh again, but he did manage to control himself this time.


	2. Attention to Detail

It was getting dark, and they were far from home, but neither wanted to lose the trail of the evidence they had found.  
“What we need,” Jack said firmly, “is to see this in the morning light. That will give us the information we need.”  
“I concur, Inspector,” Phryne said coquettishly. “So what do we do now? Go back to Melbourne and come back in the morning? You know I’m not a morning person…”  
In point of fact, he had come to know it well, and he smiled. “And…I expect you have an idea about how we should proceed.”  
“There _must_ be an inn of some sort in town.”  
“Of course.”  
She tilted her head in surprise. “That was unusually easy!”  
He gave her a half of a grin. “It only makes sense. I can be agreeable sometimes.”  
He received in return a whole, enticing smile from her. “Oh, I concur once again. Sometimes you are very agreeable. In fact, I’m endlessly surprised by the things you agree to. The other night, for instance…” She let her sentence drift off.  
“Why would you be surprised by that?”  
She gave him a slow, assessing look. “And to think that I once would have called you ‘buttoned-up’,” she murmured.  
“There’s a time and place for everything. And at that time and place, I was anything but buttoned up, if you recall.”  
“Oh, I recall,” Phryne said. “I can’t imagine forgetting a moment of that night.”  
“If you do, I’ll happily refresh your memory,” he offered confidently.  
“Really!” Phryne batted her eyelashes. “Actually, the whole thing just flew right out of my head.”  
“But not tonight.”  
“What!”  
“We can’t share a room here. Phryne, I’m already skating on thin ice to include you in this investigation. I have to be careful how I conduct myself.”  
She sighed. “Fine. Yes, I know you’re right, I just don’t like it. All right, let’s go into town and see what we can find.” They headed toward the car, and she stopped suddenly and turned to him. “You could…leave the door to your room unlocked.”  
“I could. For awhile, at least.” This time his smile was the enticing one. “It doesn’t seem like a very dangerous place.”  
“You have no idea how dangerous I can be,” Phryne answered.  
“Oh, but I do.” 

In short order, they had found the inn in the middle of town. While Jack parked the car, Phryne went to the desk to arrange for rooms for the evening. It was most unusual for a woman to make this kind of arrangement if she was with a man, and they hoped it would distract the desk clerk from thinking about them having no luggage.  
“My name is Phryne Fisher. I will be needing two rooms for tonight,” she demanded.  
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the clerk said firmly. “We have only one room available tonight.”  
“Oh, my.” There was no choice: she would get her wish after all, if not in the way she had intended. Just then, she saw Jack coming through the door. She said loudly, “Only one room left? Well. Luckily my husband and I can make do with that.” She turned to him and said, “Jack, dear, there’s one room left. Aren’t we lucky?”  
“Indeed.” Jack managed to evince no particular emotion.  
The clerk was one who was very attentive to his customers, and that included paying attention to details. Proud that he had listened carefully, the clerk handed Jack a key and said politely, “Here you are, Mr. Fisher.”  
Jack smiled tightly and thanked the clerk, while Phryne succumbed to a fit of coughing.


	3. More

The Honourable Phryne Fisher was gritting her teeth. It was going to happen soon, and she knew there was nothing she could do about it. It happened every time, lately. Just the thought of it made her heart speed up. It would take all of her strength not to pull out her gun and shoot whoever was responsible this time.

She wandered unencumbered through the ballroom, watching the other guests. She never lacked for dance partners, of course, but just now she didn’t want one. The anticipation of the thing had her on edge. Ever since she had gotten to England and started socializing again, it was always the same. It had taken her by surprise; it hadn’t happened to her yet in Melbourne, although it wouldn’t have been as problematic if she were there. It would have made sense, in her own little world, in the lovely life she had made for herself there. But here, it was an endless source of irritation.

She grabbed a drink off the tray of a passing waiter. Now _he_ was a nice-looking fellow: he had that same charming combination of broad shoulders and narrow hips that—  
She stopped herself. That _many_ men had, she thought. Well, not many, perhaps. Some. Some men were built like that. Some attractive men. But really, there were lots of ways that a man could be attractive, weren’t there? If she had developed a predilection for a particular body type, well—

NO! There it was. The event she was dreading had happened again. Someone had decided to play that wretched song, and it would take everything she had not to fire her gun into the Victrola that played it. God forbid any live performers should dare play it in her presence! But as always, during the course of the evening, someone had to go and pull it out and play it.  
It was the latest hit. It made her want to hit something.

This time, Phryne decided she didn’t have to take it. She made her excuses—not believed by anyone, but she didn’t care. She got her coat and other belongings, and called a cab to take her home. She wouldn’t go through it again. She had had enough.

When she arrived at home—not really home, not now—she went directly up the stairs to her suite of rooms. She removed her elegant outfit and replaced it with a silk robe—not as nice as the one she had in Melbourne, of course, but a plausible substitute. She went to her sitting room, pulled a chair over next to the window, curled up in a ball and gazed out at the stars.

“They’re the same stars I would see in Melbourne, but they’re all out of place,” she contemplated. “Like I am. If I were in Melbourne, it wouldn’t be this way. The stars would be in their places, and I would be in my place, and he…”

Her thoughts always came to this point.  
Part of her wanted to curse him, for making her want things she had vowed never to want.  
Part of her wanted to love him, for being the man that he was.

She looked out at the stars, and let her imagination take her back to the place where she wanted to be; then she began to sing. Oh, yes, she knew all the words to the wretched song. They were etched on her brain and in her heart, from the first time she had heard it. She didn’t write those words; they were someone else’s words, not, perhaps, words she could say. But she sang, in a husky, longing voice, out the window, to the stars, to whoever might be listening.

_More than you know,_   
_More than you know,_   
_Man of my heart,_   
_I love you so._   
_Lately I find,_   
_You're on my mind,_   
_More than you know._

_Whether you're right,_   
_Whether you're wrong,_   
_Man of my heart,_   
_I'll string along._   
_You need me so_   
_More than you'll ever know._

_Loving you the way that I do,_   
_There's nothing I can do about it._

_Loving may be all you can give,_   
_But honey, I can't live without it._

_Oh, how I'd sigh,_   
_Oh, how I'd cry,_   
_If you got tired,_   
_And said goodbye._

_More than I'd show,_   
_More than you’ll ever know._

In a police station in Melbourne, a young constable was enjoying mid-morning tea made by his new bride, who had just happened to stop by with a basket from Mr. Butler. She was under strict instructions to do so every few days. The constable and his wife walked down the hall to the office of the presiding senior officer, and entered with their delectable offerings. They found him gazing out the window with an enigmatic expression.

“We have some tea and scones, sir,” the constable said gently. His senior officer shook himself out of his reverie, and smiled a bit at the tray they brought. Their motives, and Mr. Butler’s—and Miss Fisher’s?—were entirely transparent, and he appreciated them very much.

“Is everything all right, sir?” the constable asked.

The Inspector made a slight nod, and his eyes were drawn back to the window. “I…thought I heard something. Just my imagination.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t have a recording of Phryne Fisher singing this song, but you can make do with the inimitable Billie Holliday, singing this song written in 1929: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rLxDPqmjtMU


	4. At the Bar

Jack Robinson enjoyed sharing a drink with the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher, ever since the first evening she had invited him to do so. So long ago now, that evening when he had stopped by with news from his connection at Welfare. So long ago. 

But tonight he would not be sharing a drink with her. It had been an explosive day. The case they solved had been terrible, soul-crushing, ending in a mess that could only loosely be called justice. He had been disheartened, and so had she. He had lost his temper, and so had she. He had lashed out, and so had she. They had stomped away from each other in a way they had never done before. 

It wasn’t a break that couldn’t be bridged—but he wouldn’t be showing up at her house looking for one of Mr. Butler’s creations in a glass tonight. Still, he wanted something to sand off the rough edges of his thoughts, so he went to a bar he used to frequent at those times when he and Rosie couldn’t find enough common ground to bear to be in the same house. 

He stood at the bar, drinking, staring morosely into his glass, lost in his thoughts. All of a sudden, the bartender said to him, “Oi, mate, I think she’s coming your way.”  
He realized that a hush had descended over the room. He looked up, turned, and there she was: the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher, standing not in the ladies’ lounge where she belonged, but right in front of him in the midst of the barroom. She glittered and gleamed, out of place as she could be, and she seemed utterly unconcerned, completely focused on him. She laid her hand on his arm in full view of everyone.  
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. She bent down to take a sniff of the drink he was holding. “The whiskey in my parlour is better than this. I _thought_ you’d come join me.” It was slightly accusatory.  
He went on the offense. “What am _I_ doing here? This is the part of the bar that is meant for men. And I happen to be one—”  
She permitted herself a seductive smile as she interrupted him. “Oh, I’m well aware.”  
“And I’m aware that you are _not_ —”  
“Yes, I thought you’d noticed,” she interrupted again.  
“—that you are not a man, and therefore you don’t belong in this part of the bar.”  
“Well. There’s only one solution to that, Jack.”  
“I should have thought so—” No. Wait. It couldn’t be that easy. Not with her.  
“You’ll just have to come with me,” she said lightly, pulling a bill from her purse and tossing it on the counter. The bartender’s eyes lit up when he saw the denomination.  
Phryne wrapped both hands around Jack’s bicep.  
“Phryne,” Jack started to argue, but her imploring look when he met her eyes stopped him from going on.  
She gazed up from beneath her lashes. “Come on, Jack,” she asked softly. Her veneer of carelessness slipped a bit, and he could see her uncertainty for a moment.  
He sighed and shook his head. “All right. Fine.” She brightened. He took the large bill off the counter and handed it back to her. “But I’ll pay for my own drinks.”  
She laughed. “Meet me at the car. It’s right out front.” Her confidence restored, she sashayed through the tables full of men who had watched the entire performance. 

Jack dredged up enough money to match what he had returned to Phryne, although it would cut him short for the rest of the week. He handed it to the bartender, who had thought he lost the extravagant tip the pretty lady had left him. The bartender, pleased, said to him, “I’d pay to be henpecked by a woman like that, mate.”  
Jack stared at him for a moment, then said, “I’ll pay, all right,” but went cheerfully to meet his doom.


End file.
